


Sounds of the Season

by Vespera_Z



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Music, Gen, Holidays, Inspired by Music, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-02-10 07:41:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12907305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vespera_Z/pseuds/Vespera_Z
Summary: Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! Loosely inspired by a few prompts and my family dynamics regarding Christmas music, just a little fun to get in the holiday spirit and to procrastinate studying for finals. Some plot, but lots of fluff and fun.





	1. Nov. 1 - The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

**Author's Note:**

> _Loose Inspiration Prompts:_  
>  1) You’re the person in the apartment next door who VERY LOUDLY blasts holiday music starting in NOVEMBER and I hate Christmas ~ pynchs on tumblr  
> 2) You wake up to the sweet sound of an elf ~ imagineforest.com
> 
> I also "thank" my mom for the annual experience of Christmas music blasting me out of bed starting on November 1st. \  
> I will include what song/version of a song I used in or as an inspiration for a specific part. I do have some plans for where this is going, so let me know what you think!

**_November 1 -- 05:00_ **

Prowl jolted awake at the thunderous onslaught of sonorous sound. Spark pounding and half of his processor still caught in the fog of recharge, he reflexively leaped up from the berth before full awareness caught up, tumbling and crashing to the floor in an uncoordinated, graceless twist of black and white limbs, doorwings, and warming blanket with a startled shout.

Groaning in irritation and pain, Prowl laid in his sprawl a moment staring at the cracked ceiling of his quarters, slowly gathering his senses as his higher processing finally booted up. His frame and helm ached, his doorwings were pinched, and that startling clamor…

Wait, that is music, he recognized. Running a search query, he identified it as a particularly iconic, 1963 Earth song associated with one of the planet’s most popular winter holidays with a myriad of religious and secular implications depending on one’s culture and beliefs. Christmas music.

 

 _It's the most wonderful time of the year! With the kids jingle belling and everyone telling you be of good cheer,  
_ _i_ _t's the most wonderful time of the year..._

 

As he lay there with the blaring sound he now recognized as music, he heard the building shouts and cursing cascading throughout the _Ark_.

“What. The. FRAG!”

“Primus, damn it. NO!”

Insert a certain medic’s tirade of epic proportions with explicatives in various languages here. Also insert varying amounts of yelling, despairing cries, and pleas for it to stop.

“Primus, why?” he mumbled to himself while clenching his optics shut, confused and annoyed, as he untangled himself from his undignified heap on the floor.

 

_It's the hap-happiest season of all. With those holiday greetings and gay happy meetings when friends come to call,  
it's the hap-happiest season of all…_

 

What glitched moron would be listening to such insufferably cheery music at decibels above that of a Seeker armada at such an ungodly hour? It was inconsiderate, insipid, insane. To some extent, he did enjoy this particular human holiday, at least its sentiments. But, he enjoyed it in the correct month, at more acceptable volumes and in limited doses.

Only one name came to mind, confirmed by the choice, as well as his pinpointing of and the visible vibration of the datapads on his desk from the overwhelming volume of sound.

 

_…There'll be scary ghost stories and tales of the glories of the Christmases long, long ago…_

 

Staggering to his peds with a huff and a stretch of aching doorwings (thank Primus he had not landed on them), Prowl stumbled through his still dark room and to the door leading to the hallway.

A small, suppressed portion of his processor appreciated the irony of his current mood with the joyous lyrics, but he was way too slagged off and exhausted from pulling an unscheduled, triple shift to be pleasant. He wanted his recharge, glitched neighbor be damned.

The picture of one thousand and one degrees of indignation and radiating fury as his door slid open, the Praxian just barely avoided colliding with the black and white, visored mech donning a Cybertronian sized Santa hat from Primus-knew-where standing just outside his door with a broad grin and arm raised to knock on Prowl’s door.

Startled, it only took the saboteur a nanoklik to recover. “Mornin’, Prowler!” Jazz exclaimed, dancing in place as he spoke.

Before Prowl could reply and inquire as to what the mech’s malfunction was, and with a roguish grin, Jazz tossed handfuls of red, green, and silver glitter over the stunned SIC before prancing off down the hall.

“Up and at ‘em, it’s Christmastime!” Jazz proclaimed.

Glitter-coated and bewildered, Prowl stood frozen as he watched with an odd mixture of annoyance and fondness as his infuriatingly endearing neighbor and friend reached the end of the hallway. He could only think of one response, which he shouted indignantly after the disappearing mech.

“It’s barely _November_ , Jazz!”

Jazz just grinned cheekily and belted out the chorus as he rounded the corner and bounded out of sight.

 

_It’s the most wonderful time of the year!!!_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Music:** It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year ~ Andy Williams


	2. Two Weeks Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos/comments. On with the show!

**_November 15 -- 04:57_ **

Two weeks...

It had been two weeks since the _Ark_ had entered the proverbial Pit. Every morning, on the dot, the Autobots would be awoken and assaulted by whatever seasonal, musical barrage Jazz selected for that day.

Admittedly, some days were not as bad as others. The worst days were when the insolent TIC decided to play as many versions of the same song in immediate succession as possible in a single day.

“It’s a listening exercise, my mechs,” Jazz had explained after ducking and dodging a wave of assorted objects ranging from empty energon cubes and datapads to wrenches and minibots. Looking very passionate and exuberant, Jazz continued, “Can you pick up the slight differences, the evolution of the lyrics over time? How did the artists adapt it to their own styles, comparisons of vocals on those more classic ones, which parodies would be the best inspiration for, oh, I don’t know,” – very fake cough – “ _reenacting_. Yeah?”

He had paused, watching his captivated audience as some looked intrigued, some looked bored, some still looked murderous, and – to Prowl’s displeasure as he noted at the time – some looked on with wolfish glee, namely a certain red hellion. Still, the general vibe of annoyance persisted, and knowing when to cut his losses, Jazz hastily added, “Or, look at it as an endurance challenge! Bye!” And then, he was gone.

This took place on the eighth day, which had involved an astounding number of different versions and parodies of “The 12 Days of Christmas,” officially recorded and not. The state of things had largely declined since then.

It was a bit of an irony, Prowl thought as he lie awake before his unrequested alarm sounded. The festive and deliriously excited saboteur with sparkling-like energy was systematically sabotaging his own faction’s base and sanity. In fact, to add to the irony, Prowl had increased in popularity over the past two weeks as more and more of his fellow Autobots approached -- demanded, threatened…whatever term works, they all applied -- him to put a stop to the madness.

Most of the them loved the holiday, and while some were inclined to join into Jazz’s joie de vivre and draw “inspiration,” this level and intensity was too much for most. In addition to his own impressive stereo system, Jazz had also hijacked the _Ark_ ’s entire speaker network to play a constant stream of holiday music, as well as hacked the comm. system so that each ‘bot’s transmissions were assigned a song.

It was all relatively harmless to this point, more a nuisance. Prowl had employed a variety of tactics, but so far each had failed. For every possible reason, complaint, or sanction of regulations Prowl came up with, Jazz had the perfect response or counter-citation of technicalities or regulations. It was frustrating yet impressive, a testament to the intelligence and quick-thinking processor of their Third in Command and Head of Special Operations.

Musing, Prowl watched in annoyed anticipation as his internal chronometer ticked over to 05:00. Right on cue:

 

 _Christmas, Christmas time is here, and Christmas songs you love to hear.  
_ _Thoughts of joy and hope and cheer, but mostly shopping, shopping, shopping!_

 

Prowl pinched the bridge of his nasal structure as he rested on his berth, audials picking up the distinct sound of Jazz singing along to the strange song.

He could understand and appreciate some of the more classic compositions, religious implications or not. Many of them were about more wholesome ideas like family, togetherness, and the beauty of season. However, there were some he could not wrap his processor around. What was that awful one from yesterday afternoon? Grandma got run over by a reindeer? Why would someone think that should be a thing?

As Prowl listened in annoyance and plotted his best course of action for the day, his comm. line lit up with angry calls from all over the ship. After receiving an audial-full from a tired, furious Ratchet followed by a hesitant, sleepy Bluestreak, Prowl tiredly rose. Between his normal work load as SIC, his strategy and planning sessions as Head Tactical Officer, and managing the new chaos that was a holiday-crazed Jazz and his followers, he was working even long hours and, thus, was exhausted.

 

 _-songs and songs we love to hear all played a thousand times each year.  
_ _Heard this same song twenty times, and it's only Halloween!_

 

Marching out and over to Jazz’s door now trimmed in hundreds of multi-colored light strands, he rapped sharply on the door and waited. And waited.

 

 _Ransack the mall, shop 'til you lose your mind. Spike the eggnog, sit back and watch Rudolph,  
_ _Frosty, Tiny Tim, and Scrooge, the Grinch, or Charlie Brown._

_It's time!!!_

 

“JAZZ!” he shouted, banging on the door once more. Still no response.

 

_It's time to do the Christmas can-can. If you can't, can't dance, well, that's okay._

 

Engine revving in irritation, he sent an insistent ping across the comm.

“Hey there, Prowler,” Prowl was greeted as the door suddenly whooshed open, revealing the broadly grinning, smaller mech accompanied by an impossibly louder dose of the a capella audial assault. Helm tilted slightly, Jazz asked, “What’s up, mech? Sounded sort of snippy there.”

What ever could prompt a mech to be “snippy” at five in the morning, Prowl sardonically thought to himself with an unconscious, indignant flick of long sensory panels. Instead, he succinctly replied come shouted, “Have you put any thought into how your insistence on deafening the base with such an incommodious, perpetual stream of a limited, albeit varying in quality, repertoire may affect the integrity and safety of the _Ark_?”

It was the latest concern he had come up with after missing multiple, important calls from human dignitaries due to the cacophony of the _Ark_ ’s captive audio system and the various, conflicting snippets of song now accompanying incoming comm. messages.

The latter was especially responsible for some resulting oversights. Due to the enormous number of calls he was receiving each day, he had identified and prioritized only certain incoming comm. messages by tone, in part thanks to a grudgingly given “cheat sheet” by Jazz.  Unfortunately, prior to obtaining the guide, he had missed some unfamiliar ones. To his embarrassment and dismay, he had only become aware that he had missed not only the transmission requests from the humans but an encrypted, highly anticipated one from Cybertron after a confused, concerned Optimus Prime had overridden his office door from receiving concerned calls about the Second in Command’s uncharacteristic absences.

The ventings of a frazzled Red Alert along with an inordinately long list of potential weaknesses and proposed additions to security added to both his concern and tiredness. A very valid concern was that sensors and alarms could be triggered yet missed due to the sheer volume of stimulus every bot was enduring, in addition to possible fatigue from the unsolicited alarm each morning affecting alertness.

Momentarily lost in thought, he sighed imperceptibly before he caught himself.

“Channeling your inner Percy this morning,” Jazz quipped, ignoring his friend and neighbor’s obvious exasperation while shifting to lean against the doorjamb. Prowl thought he detected the volume lower slightly. His doorwings suddenly felt lighter.

“Just answer the question,” Prowl demanded, folding his arms in front of him and making himself seem more imposing. “As our Head of Special Operations and the Third in Command, you know better than anyone on this base the importance-”

“Whoa, hold up there, mech!” Jazz placated with chuckle, vaguely waving his servo to stave off the oncoming lecture. Reaching out, he patted Prowl’s shoulder in a reassuring gesture, knowing smirk belying his understanding of how that gesture always irked Prowl. Leaning in, Jazz added conspiratorially, “Don’t worry that fancy processor of yours, I already got it covered.”

In the blink of an optic, Jazz whirled around and was back in his decked-out quarters, door sliding closed and leaving Prowl gawking. Just what had Jazz done now, he thought.

 

_It's the Christmas can-can, that's the end._

_Wait! For our ending, we should share this holiday!_

* * *

**_November 16 –- 05:08_ **

“Prime!”

Prowl strode briskly into the Command Center just as the irate visage of the Decepticon leader flooded Teletraan’s central screen. Amid the angry voices and Starscream’s grating shrieking, Prowl picked up the sound of that infernal can-can song from yesterday morning blasting throughout the _Nemesis_. The faintest of grins tinted his lips. He didn’t…

Failed-stifled snickers broke out among those present, their own perpetual music turned down for this. Scanning the room, Prowl spotted Jazz perched against the desktop next to the communications station, watching him with a smug expression. He was suspiciously quiet and looked as though he was clued in to the biggest joke of the vorn.

Fighting his urge to join the others in the absurdity of the moment, ignoring Jazz for the moment, Prowl ensured his expression was impassive as he moved to stand next to Optimus.

“Megatron,” Prime replied calmly, amusement barely veiled at their enemy’s dilemma.

“I demand you cease this obnoxious, audial fusillade this instant,” the Decepticon leader demanded. Despite the effort to appear unruffled and in control beneath his fury, Prowl noted the noticeable twitch and grimace at the overly cheery song.

Despite the ramifications to his own efforts against the _Ark_ ’s situation, Prowl had to admit his enjoyment of this latest development. A subtle smirk unconsciously formed at the warlord’s heated glare.

Optimus laughed, then responded, “Considering no such effort has been sanctioned on our part, perhaps you should be inquiring among your own mechs.” After a slight pause and Megatron’s indignant splutter, he added as an afterthought, “Surely, this is something that Soundwave can sort out.”

Megatron glared steely at the screen a moment before looking off to the side and muttering something that vaguely sounded like “indisposed.” Prowl glanced questioningly at Jazz, and the saboteur shook his head slightly, grin still in place. Jazz has managed it, but he was not directly involved in the Decepticon TIC’s absence. When had Jazz had the time to accomplish this?

As the two leaders continued their traditional bickering, Prowl looked Jazz over more critically. A master of deceit and an impeccable actor, it was difficult to distinguish any tells from the mech. However, Prowl had worked with Jazz for millennia, and he knew what to look for. The faintest drop in the shoulders, the barest hint of strain in expression, the fact that he was standing out of frame and simply observing the conversation, and the slightest change in system readings as suggested by the incoming data of his sensory panels. Alone, the observations were easily overlooked. However, scrutinized and collectively, they all indicated multiple missed recharge cycles, which would be necessary to infiltrate the sunken, Decepticon ship and hijack the ship’s communication and audio systems.

As the entirely unproductive transmission except for entertainment came to an end with Megatron’s typical warning of impending regrets, everyone present turned to face Jazz. At the sudden scrutiny, Jazz straightened and raised his servos placatingly.

“Guilty as charged,” he quipped, to which he received a variety of responses including applause.

As the excitement ebbed and everyone returned either to the rec. room or their duties, Jazz joined an amused Prime and a doubtful Prowl.

“Is it really wise to be potentially provoking Megatron like this?” Prowl voiced quietly, questioning gaze shifting between his commander and fellow officer.

Taking a datapad out of his subspace and holding it so that Prime and Prowl could both view its contents, Jazz smiled reassuringly.

“The actual probabilities are more your thing, Prowler, but how I figured, it won’t make much of a difference when Megsie decides to act,” Jazz explained to sniggers from the eavesdroppers.

Smiling yet pointedly looking at each as Prowl did the same though much more severely, he indicated back to the screen once he was sure the others had returned their attention to their jobs. “I temporarily rigged their system so that it can be manipulated from this ‘pad. Selections, volumes, and shutting it off it things start going South real fast.”

Pressing an icon in the upper left corner, the screen filled with what appeared to be a random, complex combination of symbols, text, and numbers that was fluid, constantly altering. “The set up and encryption changes periodically and after an attempt to fix it is detected. It ain’t perfect, but I figure it’ll maybe buy us a break through the upcoming holidays.”

Taking the datapad in servo, Prowl curiously examined it closer. Indeed, what Jazz said was true, and the projections his battle computer provided him agreed. Handing it back, Prowl nodded and said to Prime, “I concur with Jazz’s assessment, sir.” Directing his next question to Jazz, he asked, curious, “Would this not be something we can modify and employ later for other purposes?”

Shaking his helm, Jazz replied, “Nah, probably not. It’s not that strong. Really, it’s only working so well right now because it’s something ole Sounders hasn’t seen in ages. He’ll figure it out, though, and then it won’t be nearly so effective. Maybe for temporary stuff, buying a few joors here and there, but that’ll be it.”

Nodding in acknowledgement of both of his senior officers, Prime added, “Then I will leave this in your capable servos, Jazz. Next time, though,” he added seriously but with a playful glint in his light blue optics, “I expect to be informed and included. I have suggestions.”

Prowl gave a long-suffering sigh with an entirely unamused look while Jazz laughed. That was the last thing he needed, Jazz and Optimus Prime colluding together on anything non-work related.

“Sure thing, boss bot!”

With his own chuckle and a consolatory servo to Prowl’s shoulder, Prime exited the Command Center, leaving his two officers together. Wordlessly staring at each other, one cheery and upbeat while the other was disgruntled, dour, yet somewhat amused, Jazz tilted his helm questioningly.

“Why?” Prowl asked.

“Well, although late, you did raise a good point about security and whatnot. So, that’s solved, you’re welcome,” Jazz replied with a slight bow, gesturing to Teletraan’s screen now occupied with a view of the _Ark_ ’s main entrance.

Straightening, Jazz continued, “However, I consider it my _prerogative_ to uphold some tenets of the holidays. Namely, that the best way to spread Christmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Music**  
>  _The Christmas Can-Can ~ Straight No Chaser_  
>  Non-traditional versions of 12 Days of Christmas one should definitely listen to:  
>  _Straight No Chaser, John Denver and the Muppets, Relient K_  
>  _The 8 Polish Foods of Christmas ~ VeggieTales_  
>  _Redneck 12 Days Of Christmas ~ Jeff Foxworthy_
> 
> I also forgot to mention, if you have any suggestions/requests for songs you would like to see used, let me know! I will try my best to do so.


	3. Your Christmas Wish?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I attempt to apply plot.  
> I promise, we will be out of November eventually, but it's _important_.

**November 19 -- 15:00**

_Candles burning low_  
_Lots of mistletoe_  
_Lots of snow and ice_  
_Everywhere we go_

_Choir singing carols_  
_Right outside my door_

“Not this again,” Ironhide complained loudly as Prowl stepped into the command center half a breem before shift change. He was here to relieve the elder, red mech as the on-duty officer, to oversee the running of the hub of Autobot operations. It sounded much more exciting than it typically was.

A new song just started, one that he recognized as more rock, blues, and soul sounding from the late 1960s. As useless as the information was, he found that he was unintentionally picking up on common themes and sounds that allowed him to identify, with a 97.6% accuracy, the date and origin of a particular Christmas song. Naturally, Prowl aimed to improve that percentage.

Prowl quizzically regarded the clearly frustrated mech as he came to a stop beside the seated mech. While he knew that Ironhide had tired of the constant stream of music early on, this onset of antipathy was more than just the general dislike of constant, blaring noise.

_All these things and more  
That's what Christmas means to me, my love_

The brawny, staunch mech huffed as he stood. “Don’t look at me like that,” he miffed, “I know you’re thinking it too.”

Doorwings unconsciously lowering in deference, Prowl slightly shook his helm as he replied, “I do not know what you’re talking about, Ironhide.”

“What I’m talking about!? Listen!”

_I see your smiling face_  
_Like I've never seen before._  
_Even though I love you madly_  
_It seems I love you more._

_Oh, the little though you give me_  
_Touched my heart for sure._  
_All these things and more, darling,_  
_That's what Christmas means to me, my love._

Ironhide stood there expectantly, strong arms crossed and sullen gaze on the listening Praxian. However, Prowl could not determine what the problem was, and he informed the waiting mech as such.

“I get that this human holiday is known to be romantic for many. I have no problem with a little of my own every now and then-” Ironhide was interrupted by groans and mock gagging at that, which he accepted goo-naturedly. After a moment of good natured ribbing, he turned back to the still confused Prowl. “I get it, but c’mon, Prowl. It’s all he’s playing right now. If we’re going to be forced to listen to this slag virtually nonstop for months, it cannot all be this sappy scrap. My audials can’t take it!”

Moving to take his seat while unsubspacing his ubiquitous datapad, Prowl returned Ironhide’s glare at his silence with his own inscrutable, contemplative expression. “You seem to be under the delusion that I have control over this,” he replied. “If I did, I assure you this would have ended weeks ago.” Did that sting to admit. “What do you expect me to do about it?”

“I don’t care how you do it,” the irritated mech exclaimed, flicking the tip of a doorwing. Prowl stiffened and twitched the appendage away from the offending servo with a microscopic grimace. “Brig him, deploy him, berth him, even, because Primus knows he only does this sort of slag when he’s ‘lonely.’ I have no preference!”

Turning, Ironhide stormed towards the doors to the main corridor. Pausing, he gave Prowl an odd look. “Just do something. You’re the only one with a chance to get that glitch to stop.” He disappeared out the doors.

Silence reigned as everyone on shift stared with wide optics or dropped jaws in the wake of the blunt demand. Prowl stared at the empty entrance as well in shock, in mortification at the bluntly stated insinuation, and in vexation.

_All these things and more, darling,  
And that's what Christmas means to me, my love._

He felt more than saw every optic shift to him, anxiously waiting for his reaction. Well, they were going to be disappointed. Clamping down on his shock and other emotions, he met each optic with his own piercing, pointed glare.

“Back to your stations,” he snapped as he dove into his own work which he brought with him.

The shift would be thoroughly unproductive for him, despite his initial resolve to assess Ironhide’s impassioned statements at a later time.

 

**17:00**

“-and that is I my analysis and advice for your upcoming negotiations with the United Nations committee,” Prowl concluded, handing the official datapad containing his formal report to Optimus who sat on the other side of the desk in the Prime’s office.

Prowl glanced at his personal datapad displaying the list of topics he still needed to discuss with the Prime during their weekly update session. Though some had already been briefly covered at another time, either one day when he was needing a signature or during one of the regular, morning staff meetings, this was the time for him and Optimus to be sure they were up-to-date and on the same page as commanding officer and second in command.

Plus, it provided a built-in break in their brimming schedules from upholding the steady, unfailing image of leaders if needed. It could provide a momentary reprieve.

_Sleigh bells ring, are you listening?  
In the lane, snow is glistening._

Though this time, it failed in that the din of Christmas music penetrated even the sound proof office spaces; thank you, Jazz, for that clever manipulation of speakers.

_A beautiful sight, oh, we’re happy tonight,  
Walking in a winter wonderland._

Optimus nodded as he quickly scanned the lengthy document. “Thank you, Prowl,” he replied. “As always, your work is both appreciated and impeccable. These will be most helpful.”

The tall red and blue mech set the report aside and then leaned back comfortably in his seat, quiet a moment which the ever-present music filled.

_He sings a love song as we go along,  
Walking in a winter wonderland._

“I must say, I really am fond of this music as of late. Volume notwithstanding,” Optimus stated casually. At Prowl’s appalled look, the Prime laughed and reassured him. “Not all of them, but many. They seem to make everything, especially the little things, seem…brighter, worthwhile, meaningful.”

“I’ll be sure to let the minicons know,” Prowl retorted drily.

Optimus just laughed again before sobering.

Prowl observed the change. Familiar with the larger mech’s moods, he awaited the continuation. Optimus had that slightly unfocused look that suggested he was pondering whether to voice something or not, usually something more personal, and how.

“I wish that those who remain on Cybertron could join us here for the holidays,” Optimus expressed, pointlessly adjusting the recently set-aside datapad. “They would love it.”

Prowl absently hummed in acknowledgment, understanding the unspoken desire that was really meant.

Shifting slightly so he was more comfortable, Prowl replied quietly, “I am sure Elita One would, and perhaps someday soon we will all be able to celebrate together, here or on Cybertron.” He paused, taking in the Prime’s suddenly melancholic mood. “Until then, we’ll make the most of it, as those back at home will too.”

_Later on we'll conspire as we dream by the fire  
To face unafraid of the plans that we made…_

Considering the turn of the conversation as the two sat in heavy silence, Prowl could not help but be reminded of Ironhide’s comment from earlier, crass and offending as the suggestion may be to him and Jazz. It seemed ridiculous to him, yet the older warrior had a point. It was Jazz, and the Polyhexian was known for selecting music to suit his mood and needs.

He broached the topic as Optimus often had interesting, if not helpful, perspective on these more personal matters. “Someone suggested earlier that the selections as of late could be indicative of a certain mech trying to communicate with someone his interest.” At Optimus’s confused look, Prowl just leveled an exasperated look. He knew what Prowl meant.

Deliberating a moment, and Prowl feeling awkward in the meantime, Optimus replied thoughtfully, “It is possible. Though, who either of the parties are would not be clear. Anyone could have asked Jazz for some help.”

Prowl nodded, mentally berating himself for not considering that. Of course, Jazz would be more than willing to help some bot out. In the saboteur’s words, it was his prerogative.

“Why?” Optimus asked.

“What?” He eloquently responded with a flare of his sensory panels, too caught up in his own thoughts.

Giving Prowl an astute look, as though he were reading Prowl like an open book, Prime clarified, “You seem oddly preoccupied with the concept. Why?”

Prowl’s optics widened, momentarily lost for an answer. It was out of character for him. Yes, he was inquisitive by nature. Yes, he did care about those he worked to protect each day. However, things like this with one notable exception were never of much interest to him. Why this time?

“The source,” he stammered, then followed with a steadying vent. “The source I heard it from…peaked my interest.” Smooth, Prowl, he thought to himself. At Optimus’s arched brow and unconvinced expression, Prowl frowned and shook his head as he stared at the notes in his lap. “Nevermind,” he muttered. “I must need a proper defrag more than I thought.”

Silence followed for what felt like joors, but his chronometer indicated it was only nanokliks.

_We'll frolic and play the Eskimo way,  
Walking in a winter wonderland._

Glancing up, expression closed, he had the distinct impression that Optimus was smiling at his expense beneath his mask. Appraisal and warmth glowed in those wise, caring blue optics, which Prowl nonverbally responded to with narrowed optics. It was not what the Prime thought, and Prowl was not going to entertain that thought.

“Perhaps we should postpone the remaining items for another time?” Optimus suggested hopefully.

Prowl felt the corners of his lips quirk up as he gave the Prime an unconvinced look. Nice try, he thought to himself, as the Prime feigned a resigned sigh.

“Next, I have the projection models for….”

 

* * *

 

**November 20 -- 10:30**

_When the leaves start to blow_  
_And the rain turns to snow,_  
_It is always the time of year I adore._

_But I know what I've missed_  
_When I make up my list._  
_There is only one thing I'm asking for._

Prowl leaned back as the song began, contemplative look on his face. It was only mid-morning and, thus far, every single song that was played could be considered ‘romantic.’ By the sound of it, this was going to be yet another one.

_I want someone I can love for Christmas_  
_(All I want for Christmas)_  
_Find a girl for me, so I won't be alone_  
_(Don't wanna be alone)_

_I want someone I can love for Christmas_  
_(She's all I want for Christmas)_  
_Please find a girl who I can call my own_  
_(Find a girl I can call my own)_

Point for the overly observant tactician, he thought to himself.

Perhaps that was it. Was he only noticing a frequency because of yesterday’s encounters? Or, had they always been there and he only now recognized them for what they were because someone pointed it out to him? Both ends of the possibility seemed probable. While Prowl would describe himself as observant when it mattered, and he was certain he would notice such repetition in theme, he was also wont to overlooking various social cues or subtexts.

Considering those who had noticed the pattern, voiced and simply acknowledging, Prowl was inclined to believe that it was likely. Not only had Ironhide and Optimus noticed the trend, but Smokescreen had casually mentioned it the previous evening prior to departing their strategy planning session and implied that numerous others on the ship had also picked up on it. Knowing his departmental second’s tendencies, there was likely a betting pool already established and brimming with wagers.

The numbers he had calculated matched the conclusion that this meant something as well.

Why did he care, though?

He reached up to gently rub beneath his chevron. His helm was starting to ache.

_Everyday she'd be near me_  
_And when I'd sing, she'd always hear me_  
_We'd walk together in the snow_

_Humming the carols we both know_  
_I'd give her everything inside my heart_  
_(Give her my heart)_

Was he interested in Jazz? If he were honest with himself, he had never really stopped to consider that matter. Ever.

He had always considered Jazz to be attractive, not just in frame – as most noticed practically immediately – but in processor and spark. His fellow black and white was lively and charming, inherently graceful, witty in a way that was never stale, exceedingly intelligent despite some bouts of immaturity, and he was caring and dependable.

In essence, Jazz was his opposite in many ways. While Prowl was the epitome of loyal and dependable, where he was reticent and reserved, Jazz was outgoing and sociable. Where he was always serious, Jazz was lively and relaxed -- though he could be deadly serious when the situation called for it. Where he struggled to interact with his fellow Cybertronians in a non-work capacity, Jazz was the center of the room, the life of a party, and friend to everyone.

Prowl never had a chance.

Yet, as he listened to the song and considered the potentiality that the saboteur’s latest selections were meant to indicate interest to someone, something deep within Prowl stirred in nervous, hopeful excitement.

_She has to be out there, I have no doubt_  
_There is someone special for me._  
_She's all that's missing, I hope she's listening._

Prowl sighed forcefully as he rubbed his face with both servos. Whether or not Jazz was interested in anyone on the _Ark_ \-- he quashed the part of him that irrationally pleaded, _Please be me_ \-- he had work to do. Likely, if that were the case, the odds of it being him were astronomically low. Prowl would know; he was designed for knowing the odds.

Picking up the stylus he did not recall dropping, Prowl pulled the closest datapad to himself and attempted to begin reading the report on the latest ore testing for their viability as energon substitutes or enhancers by sciences.

Yet, despite the easing of the ache in his processor at something solid to process, his spark felt heavier than it had kliks earlier. It felt as though it wished to sing in response, but instead it was shoved into an inescapable, empty room where all it could do was press against the bare walls and listen.

_I want someone I can love for Christmas_  
_(She's all I want for Christmas)_  
_Please find a girl, so I won't be alone_

* * *

 

**November 21 -- 18:00**

_You've made this a Christmas to remember_  
_Springtime feelin's in the middle of December_  
_Strangers meet and they willingly surrender_

“Oh-whoa, what a Christmas to remember,” Jazz sang along as he stepped into Prowl’s office, two full cubes of glowing energon in hand. “Evenin’, Prowler.”

“Good evening, Jazz,” Prowl greeted politely, setting aside the finished schedule for next three decaorns. “You seem especially cheery.”

The upbeat mech smiled brightly at Prowl as he approached, causing Prowl to feel an odd mix of nervousness and contentment. Although he encountered Jazz multiple times each Earth day due to the collaborative nature of their respective departments, this was the first time he was alone with the mech since his interpretation revelation.

Quashing all of that for the moment, Prowl graciously accepted the cube Jazz extended to him, noting that it was warmed, and gestured to the Polyhexian in an open invitation to join him, which he did.

“Huh,” the saboteur replied once he was settled in the seat across from Prowl, pausing to take a sip from his own cube. “Guess I’m just having a pleasant day.”

“You guess?” Prowl echoed questioningly with a quirked brow. It was statements like that which made the mech irritating yet endearing.

Smirking slightly, Jazz replied, “Yep. Pleasantly, no surprises from that intel Mirage was gathering. And,” he spoke louder before Prowl could interrupt, “before you start harping on me, yes, I do have that report for you. Here!”

Jazz leaned forward and slid the datapad across the desk. Reaching for it, Prowl stilled as their servos brushed, trying and failing to ignore the warmth and electromagnetic tingle he felt from the touch. Primus, he thought to himself, he was acting just like those cliché, overly sappy characters from that movie channel some of the other bots occasionally watched, either to ridicule or to feel better on an especially trying day.

Leaning back and assuming a comfortable -- and borderline sensual -- lounge, seemingly unfazed to Prowl’s consternation, Jazz continued. “Anyways, a pleasant, catastrophe-free day in Special Ops, a pleasant patrol this afternoon, and,” he added more amatively, “pleasant company for evening rations accompanied by equally pleasant music. Overall-”

“A pleasant day,” Prowl finished for him distractedly, caught up on that tone as well as the music.

_And I had fantasized about Christmas in this way_  
_Curled up by a fireplace in a Tahoe ski chalet_  
_With a fast talking lover and some slow burning wood_  
_But even in my wildest dreams it never got this good_

You’ll make this a Christmas to remember…

Prowl had the distinct feeling that Jazz was watching him with a concerned look beneath that visor, so he quickly took a sip from his cube to occupy the silence. Hopefully, Jazz would take the cue. Thankfully, his predictive abilities regarding Jazz’s hatred for awkward silences that rivaled his own was practically unfailing.

“So, everything is coming together _pleasantly_ ,” Jazz paused to laugh at Prowl’s sarcastic huff at the overuse, “with the preparations for Thanksgiving this year.”

“Please tell me you all are _not_ going to try to emulate the flavors of the traditional, human cuisines again this year,” Prowl said. At Jazz’s nervous laugh and impish expression, Prowl implored, “Jazz, no! If for no other reason, then might I remind you of Ratchet’s vow of painful disassembly and numerous, colorful and creative extremes to whoever dares to attempt that fiasco again?”

Jazz grinned at that. “Aw, I was hoping for verbatim.”

“Jazz,” he warned.

“Don’t worry, mech,” Jazz placated. “I’m not suicidal. We’re staying true to the Cybertronian classics we can create here.” He cocked his helm slightly, suddenly hesitant. “You’ll be there, though. Right?”

“Of course,” he replied immediately, receiving a blinding smile.

Thanksgiving was especially meaningful to all the Earth-bound Cybertronians, Prowl included. Their annual celebrations of the major human holidays were always something he ensured he never missed when possible. Albeit, his appearances were much shorter than that of many others. In addition to his own dislike of prolonged socialization, he typically picked up additional, shorter shifts so that the others would be able to stay longer, if not for the entire duration.

Jazz knew this and respected his decision…after extensive debate one year, of course.

“Good,” Jazz replied, relieved.

_And you've made this a Christmas to remember_  
_Springtime feelin's in the middle of December_  
_‘Neath the mistletoe you kissed me warm and tender_  
_Oh! What a Christmas to remember_

Jazz stayed for another half joor during which they cycled between conversation and content silence. It was during these lulls, when the music was most clear, that the music-loving TIC would softly hum refrains while Prowl reveled in the warm, sultry caress of that perfect voice. Each time, Prowl knew that he caught Jazz’s gaze as the saboteur sang.

It took almost more restrain than he could muster to refrain from, well, doing anything. Even if he did choose to accept his possible feelings on this matter, there was no way they would be reciprocated. If he spoke too soon and he had, indeed, read too much into the situation, he stood to lose an incredible, grounding friendship. That was not something he could afford to lose, nor was he willing to do so without absolute certainty.

Finally, and sadly, Jazz stood, collected their now empty cubes, and turned to leave. Pausing shy of where his movement would trip the door’s sensor to open, Jazz angled back toward Prowl and asked, “By the way, and be completely honest, what’re your thoughts on the mix lately?”

Quickly glancing up from the report he just began, Prowl met the saboteur’s curious visor as he contemplated a response. Should he let Jazz know he had caught on, or should he just say something safe and vague?

Deciding on something in between, he replied, “It definitely exceeds the last two week’s ‘mix’ as far as overall tolerability and enjoyment, though a little repetitious in theme. The compositions are those that seem intended to mean or communicate something rather than just fill a space with noise.” There. That was safe.

Jazz hummed in vague, contemplative acknowledgement. With a disarming grin and tilt of the helm, he sauntered out of the office, leaving a relieved yet conflicted Prowl to his work once again.

* * *

 

**November 22 -- 04:57**

Today was the day, Prowl thought resolutely as he lay awake, awaiting his annoyingly precise, unsolicited wake up call.

Today, he was going to act. He could not take any more recharge-less nights over this situation. It must be resolved.

He could analyze this situation as much as he liked, but the result would never change. Either he read the signs correctly for once and this singular event would transform his life in a way he never believed possible for himself, or he read too much into nothing and the dynamics of their remarkable friendship were about to change. He chose to put faith into his own abilities and their friendship should he be wrong. After all, there was no such thing as a zero percent chance of failure.

Determined, Prowl got to his peds and went about preparing himself for the day, ensuring everything was flawless. On cue, his morning entendre played:

_I don't want a lot for Christmas_  
_There is just one thing I need_  
_I don't care about the presents_  
_Underneath the Christmas tree_

_I just want you for my own_  
_More than you could ever know_  
_Make my wish come true, oh,_  
_All I want for Christmas is you_

A handful of breems later as Prowl cleared his doorway, pristine, purposeful, and with doorwings held high with confidence, the alarm klaxon shrieked and a red glow enshrouded the hallway.

Perimeter breach, the flurry of comm. calls informed him.

Decepticons!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Music**   
>  _What Christmas Means to Me ~ Stevie Wonder_   
>  _Winter Wonderland ~ Frank Sinatra_   
>  _Christmas Wish ~ Straight No Chaser_   
>  _A Christmas to Remember ~ Dolly Parton & Kenny Rogers_   
>  _All I Want for Christmas is You ~ Mariah Carey_


	4. Christmas Without You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This and the next two parts were originally supposed to be one part, but since I am dragging a bit, I decided to go ahead and split it up.  
> Note: I am basing the dates off of this year's.

**November 23 -- 05:45**

Quiet.

It was too quiet.

Everything hurt, and it was too quiet.

With a pained groan and harsh vent, Prowl struggled onto his side. Ratchet would have his plating if he caught him lying on top of his doorwings like that. Not just at the stress it placed on the recently repaired appendages, but in how it likely would involve re-repairing the delicate joints, distracting the chief medical officer from closely monitoring…

Prowl deleted that thought thread immediately. The horrifyingly gruesome images from the medical bay were already seared into his processor. He had no inclination of reliving the trauma of those sites, especially _that_ site.

Clenching his optics shut, curling in on himself, and releasing a shaking sigh, Prowl attempted to restart his recharge cycle and banish those thoughts. He did not want to think, and he did not want to process. His frame ached in ways he had not felt in ages, he had no motivation to uphold his responsibilities, and it all just _hurt_.

However, moments later, he huffed in frustration as it was just too quiet. He never thought he would see the orn where he would miss the noise.

Unsteadily, he rose and achingly staggered into his private wash racks. Feeling weak from such minimal exertion, he gingerly leaned against the shut door. He smirked faintly at the drastic contrast of himself in the span of approximately twenty-four hours. It was remarkable the difference an Earth day could make, he mused. It was only yesterday that he had been his typical collected, poised, and confident self solely focused on a task, personal or otherwise.

Staring across the relatively small room, he could not help but agree with that sentiment even more as he caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror there. The evidence of the vehement thrashing the _Ark_ Autobots endured was glaringly and achingly presented by the still healing weld lines, the scratches and paint transfers, the scorched patches of plating, the still battered-appearing doorwings, and the smarting twinges and stabs of pain resulting from the overuse of several hastily repaired broken struts.

Sadly, he was one of the most well off following the unanticipated confrontation.

He was fortunate. Remarkably, there were no fatalities, though there had been and still were some very close-calls. He shuddered at the memory as, unbidden, those images he fought to suppress flashed before his optics, trapping him.

_The cacophony and chaos of battle surrounded him as he could only watch in horror from too far away…_

_Glowing rivers gathered in an accumulating pool beneath a broken frame surrounded by purple-emblemed assailants. Terror and agony contorted that beautiful and normally joyful face. That smooth, captivating voice cracked in an anguished shriek…_

_A blinding, fusion flash. Outcry and renewed vigor. He was sprinting across the plain, heedless of his surroundings and the calls of his comrades…_

_The blinding fear, anger, desperation, and helplessness he felt as he cradled the mangled, gasping form of the mech he had come to realize he loved…_

_The panic he felt as multiple sets of arms pried his love away from him, followed by large, strong red arms holding him back as Ratchet descended on the suffering, still mech…_

_A pinch, and then darkness and unawareness as he glitched…_

Overcome, he slid down to the floor, damaged panels incidentally scraping the metal surface. Yet, he did not care, not when Jazz was lying in Ratchet’s care and desperately fighting for his life at that very moment. His comrades cum family were in tatters, his commandeer, Prime, and friend was critical yet stable and recovering, and Prowl himself was injured and the only officer close to ambulatory and functional. All of that paled in comparison to Jazz and his harrowing disaster.

It was eerily quiet with the missing Christmas music, and all the silence did was remind him of what he now had to lose. On Thanksgiving, nonetheless.

Burying his face in his servos, curling down into himself, Prowl did the one thing he had not done since he had lost his home city, his foundation, his family, and his history early in the war.

He cried.

**~ 0 ~**

Almost an hour later, Prowl finally pulled himself together enough to quickly and carefully wash his frame of the remaining remnants of yesterday’s battle. He was then on his way first to the command center and then to the recreation room. There was only one place he wished to be at the moment, the medical bay by Jazz’s side, but the promised wrath of a recharge-deprived, furious, and apprehensive Ratchet was enough of a threat to temporarily keep Prowl away.

As he walked down the hallway, it was eerily quiet. The low hum of the _Ark_ ’s systems and the faint clang of metal on metal accompanying his steps were the only sounds to penetrate the cloying silence. There were no muted murmurs of conversations filling quarters, no laughter or voices floating throughout the halls from the rec. room, and, above all, no music.

There was no life.

Without fully realizing it, Prowl found himself paused before Jazz’s door. The bright, multi-colored strands of lights flashed, a reflection of the inhabitant’s personality and love of this holiday season. They also contrasted entirely with the current state of the _Ark_ and its inhabitants. Prowl had no way of accessing the Head of Special Operations’ room without the risk of damage either to himself or the door’s locking mechanism, but something seemed to whisper to him to try.

Reaching out and inputting his personal code, he was shocked when the panel chimed in acceptance and the door swished open. Jazz mentioned repeatedly that his door was always open to him. Prowl had never thought that was meant literally, especially considering the nature of the mech’s profession.

Entering, Prowl noted the disarray of the room. Empty cubes, datapads, and physical music files alike were scattered across the low table in front of disheveled seating. A warming blanket was wadded at the foot of the berth, and the shelving on the left wall was filled with an assortment of datapads, mementos, and a few display frames and holocubes with images that Prowl could mostly date as within Jazz’s time with the Autobots. However, there was a method to the madness. The initially appearing chaos was its own defense, and only Prowl’s familiarity with the saboteur allowed him to quickly parse that method.

His focus, was drawn to the conspicuous, immaculate stereo system Jazz had built and perfected over the past few years. As odd as it seemed to him, Prowl felt that the presence of something so quintessentially “Jazz” brought some form of comfort to him, perhaps even the Polyhexian too, despite the irrationality of that thought.

After a moment parsing the setup, Prowl switched the system on and stepped back, vents held.

_Christmas without you_   
_White Christmas and I'm blue_   
_Like fireworks with no fuse_   
_Christmas without you_

Prowl smiled sadly at the longing yet hopeful tone of the music. Lifting the device resting on top of the system containing Jazz’s entire library of Christmas-related music, Prowl quickly scanned through the impressively lengthy list and selected the pertinent titles.

He was taking a cue from Jazz and trying his own hand at using the music to communicate for him.

Adjusting the volume to something sensible, he exited the haphazard quarters and strode off toward the command center. He would get through this. For Jazz, he would do anything.

_Christmas without you_   
_White Christmas and I'm blue_   
_I love you I miss you_   
_So sad but so true_

_Christmas without you_   
_Like a mystery with no clues_   
_Like fireworks with no fuse_   
_Christmas without you_

_The sweetest gift I know would be if the new snow_   
_Could fall on your footsteps on this Christmas Eve._   
_The most joyous Christmas if luck could be with us_   
_Would be if Saint Nicholas brought you home to me._

Stepping into the minimally staffed center, Prowl surveyed those present. Fireflight and Bluestreak were chatting quietly, tired and subdued given the circumstanes, at their respective, adjacent stations while Skydive and Streetwise were keeping the systems operational at theirs. Hot Spot, and likely Red Alert if the subtly angled cameras in the corner were any indication of their security officer’s heightened state of paranoia after yesterday, supervised as Prowl was not present to do so.

The Protectobots had been called in due to the dire situation late, so they had not received quite as much damage as others. Additionally, while no one had walked away unscathed from the attack, it was by no coincidence that some of the youngest of their numbers were those most sheltered, either through Prowl’s deliberate command and efforts or by that of the more veteran among them.

Yet, when it came down to it, this was still his fault. He was Optimus Prime’s chief tactical officer and second in command. Regardless of whether anyone actually blamed him, it was his responsibility to account for and be prepared for such surprises, and it was more so his responsibility to protect every life under his command.

It was his fault. Despite that this experience was not something new to him, that knowledge spited him still.

The present ‘bots went quiet, quieter than they already were, once they noticed Prowl. They each cast Prowl a questioning and, in Bluestreak’s case, concerned look.

“Sir, are you alright?” Hot Spot asked him. Prowl looked at him dully and confused.

“Prowl?” Bluestreak asked, standing and hesitantly approaching with lowered doorwings flicking in sympathy and support.

Why were they so concerned? Undoubtedly, they now knew about his acknowledged feelings for Jazz after his display. However, they also had to know that it was his fault. Their concern was unprecedented and disconcerting to him.

He opened his mouth to respond, but all that came out with a faint chocking noise. The blatant concern, the unwavering support and offered comfort, and the understanding sympathy were too much. He did not deserve it.

“Prowl,” Bluestreak whispered, resting a servo softly on Prowl’s upper arm. Kind, sympathetic blue optics met his own, showing the younger mech’s own anxiety, fear, understanding, and resolve. “He’ll be okay.”

_Christmas without you_   
_White Christmas and I'm blue_   
_I love you I miss you_   
_So sad but so true_

_Christmas without you_   
_Not something I can get used to_   
_I just have no use for_   
_Christmas without you_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Music**   
>  _Christmas Without You ~ Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers_


	5. Please Come Home for Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case I do not post the next part in time, Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, everyone!
> 
> Thank you to my readers, and thank you for the kudos/comments!

**November 24 -- 08:00**

Prowl approached the entrance to the recreation on his way to his office. The soft din of a few voices drifted out, faint compared to the normal racket for this time of the day and accompanied by music. However, at least it was there now. Half of their forces that were waylaid in the medical bay were released over the course of the past day. It was a boon for the overall mood of those who anxiously waited for their friends cum family to rejoin them once more after the latest altercation with the Decepticons.

Prowl was on his way back from his ornly visit to the medical bay during which he received updates from Ratchet on his and his team’s progress in repairing the injured ‘bots, he typically spoke with Prime, and then he entered Jazz’s private room in the ICU and sat by the healing saboteur holding a battered, black servo.

Thankfully, Jazz was solidly in recovery now. Ratchet performed the last of Jazz’s major surgeries early that morning, and Prowl was called and arrived soon afterwards. Now, it was just a waiting game for when Jazz would awake from stasis. For now, he was out of danger, though how long it would be until Jazz returned to them remained a mystery.

Refocusing on the present as he walked down the glaringly orange hallway, Prowl shifted his doorwings in friendly greeting and warm relief as he spotted Smokescreen and Hound entering the recreation room, newly released from medical bay earlier while Prowl was visiting Jazz. Both mech’s acknowledged him, Smokescreen’s own panels moving in a mixed reply, before they both entered to a boisterous yet still somewhat subdued welcome.

Momentarily pausing on the threshold, Prowl observed the mechs within. Tired and noticeably worried were apt descriptors of their overall demeanor, but the addition of two more friends no longer requiring the immediate attention of their medical staff had an uplifting effect, as it always did. As Hound and Smokescreen turned to determine where to sit in the uncannily open room, they were met with smiles, light-hearted quips, hugs, pats to the shoulder, and general comradery and effervescence.

While there were still many notable characters missing from the crowd in frame and presence, the _Ark_ and its crew were recovering. However, while Prowl felt a twinge of contentment and relief at the slightest return to normalcy, he still felt as though he was looking in through a window. He saw and could sense the increasingly positive and normal atmosphere of the others, but the apprehension and pain of Jazz and his own role in this outcome barricaded him. Despite the encouragement, the reassurance, and the number of those present, he felt isolated and alone, as though he stood in a foggy darkness just beyond the reach of the light, unable to reach forward and feel its warmth and use its clarity.

 _Bells will be ringing this sad, sad news_  
_Oh, what a Christmas to have the blues_  
_My baby's gone I have no friends_  
_To wish me greetings once again_

 _Choirs will be singing "Silent Night"_  
_Christmas carols by candlelight_  
_Please come home for Christmas (Please come home for Christmas)_  
_If not for Christmas, by New Year’s night_

His gaze shifted to the shoved aside and stacked storage boxes in the back, cleared corner of the room. Their annual tradition was to set up and decorate for Christmas during the evening on Thanksgiving. Prowl could clearly see it: the room filled with laughter, banter, comments and unwarranted “constructive” criticism by a few regarding the specific placement of items, usually at least some sort of singing, and a myriad of other chaotic yet homey sounds that depicted the relaxed, festive, and blithe vibe. Optimus and the other height-gifted mechs aided in placing decorations higher up while the more vertically challenged of them would take care of the lower portion of the tree and other small details throughout the room. Others would sit, watch, and offer suggestions, snark, and chatter. In the thick of it all, Jazz would coordinate everything animatedly. Prowl could see that bright blue visor in the warm glow of the festive lights, that vivacious demeanor, and that radiant smile as Jazz cajoled him into whatever task he had in mind. It always worked too.

The pang of sorrow was palpable in that moment. The visual reminder by the shunted aside decor juxtaposed with those memories prompted him to quietly turn and slip away unnoticed.

 _Friends and relations send salutations_  
_Sure as the stars shine above_  
_But this is Christmas, yes, Christmas my dear_  
_The time of year to be with the ones you love_

Later that evening, Prowl sat beside the battered, healing Polyhexian laying on the medical berth with multiple IV drips and various medical monitors attached. It was jarring to see someone so lively, strong, and confident appear so feeble, small, and vulnerable.

In his servo, Prowl held several, handmade Christmas cards of varying artistic quality that were massive by human scale yet tiny by Cybertronian scale. Each were sent to Jazz by various children from schools, hospitals, and many other organizations across the globe, though their residing country was the most represented.

Due to his appeal and charisma, as well as his own like of the human holidays and the planet’s youngest residents, Jazz volunteered for, visited, and was involved in many of the Autobot’s public appearance and charitable events that involved interacting with Earth children. As such, he had developed quite a few lasting relationships, and he received and thoroughly enjoyed such cards and letters. Often, and Prowl was only now realizing its true purpose, Jazz would use some of his favorites as an excuse to visit Prowl while the Praxian was still working in order to share the experience and his memorable encounters with humanity.

Prowl was made aware of the piling mail Jazz received since the beginning of his internment in the ICU. Thus, Prowl had taken it upon himself to bring the accumulating mail with him when he visited Jazz and read them to the unresponsive mech. Ratchet had mentioned that it may help with Jazz’s recovery, and it most certainly would help with Prowl’s coping.

“The next one is from an Elizabeth Shaw, six years old, from the Monroe Carell Jr. Children’s Hospital,” Prowl said to the motionless saboteur as he held the next oversized card. “The card is an enormous, thick piece of white construction paper folded in half. The front of the card has a drawing of a little girl, presumably Elizabeth, and her rendition of you decorating a very large Christmas tree. Her message is inside, and the back has another drawing of you and her holding hands and walking toward…what looks like an angel.” Prowl always admired the creativity of these cards.

“She writes, ‘Dear Autobot Jazz, Merry Christmas! Thank you for writing to me this year. It was hard for me and my family, but your letters make us so happy when they come. Mommy and Daddy cry when they see them.” Prowl paused, hesitant at the implication, before continuing. “My doctor says my cancer is worse, but he says I will be okay for Christmas. I can’t wait to see you again this year! We always love your visits. You are so fun, kind, cool, and brave. Maybe you can bring your friend too this year, the police car with wings when he transforms. Love, Elizabeth Shaw.”

Prowl stared at the drawing on the back of the card, seeing it in a new light based on the girl’s letter. Prowl vaguely recalled Jazz mentioning some of these children he would visit and write to periodically. Jazz always referred to them as inspirational and the epitome of bravery in children. It was obvious when Jazz had spent time with pediatric cancer patients because he was always a little more muted than normal yet significantly more driven and focused when he returned to base. In fact, Jazz revealed to him once that while they were some of the hardest relationships he developed with humans, he considered them some of the most rewarding relationships as well. It lent a degree of perspective, Jazz would say.

To Prowl, these efforts made Jazz all the more beautiful. Despite what war, hardships, and circumstances often forced the mech to be, Jazz was inherently a good, kind, and beautiful spark. He was a beam of revitalizing warmth in an otherwise cold and jaded universe.

“Primus, Jazz,” Prowl whispered, cradling a limp, weld-covered servo in one of his own as he brushed his other servo against a cold, healing cheek. “Please come back, come home.” He pressed a delicate kiss to the cradled servo. “I miss you, and I need you.”

 _So, won't you tell me you'll never more roam_  
_Christmas and New Year’s will find you home_  
_There'll be no more sorrow, no grief and pain_  
_And I'll be happy, happy once again_

**November 25 –- 02:58**

The door to Jazz’s room cracked open quietly, a bright stream of light streaking the far wall with a thin line that illuminated the otherwise dark room along with the glow of the monitoring devices. Peering into the room to check on his patient, Ratchet sighed, exasperated yet empathetic, at the uncomfortably recharging Praxian leaning against the berth as he sat in the chair. The monochromatic Second in Command’s doorwings were folded down against his back, and his right servo held Jazz’s servo loosely. The sight was not uncommon since the saboteur’s traumatic injuries, yet it was still spark-breaking for the older, seasoned medic.

Ratchet noiselessly approached the monitors on the other side of the berth from the resting Praxian. He checked and recorded Jazz’s vitals, which were improving slowly but steadily, before running a passive scan over Prowl. Doorwings twitched at the sensation of the scan, but there was otherwise no response from the clearly exhausted Praxian.

Shaking his helm at the resulting readings, Ratchet retrieved a cube of energon from the nearby dispenser and left it beside the Praxian, next to the set aside stack of cards and letters. Hopefully, Prowl would be encouraged to consume it due to its proximity. It was all he could do except for getting Jazz up and operating again.

Ensuring Prowl was not going to strain anything too terribly by his position, but not daring to touch the mech as he recharged, Ratchet cast a glance at the uppermost, open card in the stack. He was also aware of how seriously Jazz took his engagement in these humans’ lives, primarily because Jazz had come to him for information regarding human diseases and prognoses early on in his involvement with the hospitals. Ratchet had always considered Jazz’s involvement admirable, though he knew he was entirely biased in that regard.

Turning, he moved to leave the two black and white mechs alone. Slipping out of the room, glancing over his shoulder at the forlorn sight once more, Ratchet uttered a silent prayer to Primus to speed Jazz’s recovery before their taciturn yet obviously in love friend reached his limits.

“How is he?”

“Slag it, Prime!” Ratchet exclaimed, startled by the large form leaning against the wall and waiting for him. “What are you doing up?”

Optimus just raised a brow, tiredly awaiting an answer. Although he would probably be released later that morning, the effort was still substantial.

Huffing a vent, equal parts releasing frustration and resettling, Ratchet addended succinctly, “Recovering, slowly but surely. It can’t be soon enough. How that crazy Polyhexian gets himself into these things is beyond me, and the bane of my existence.”

“But, he will make a full recovery?”

Pause.

“I can’t make any guarantees at this moment, but it appears that way and is my hope.”

Nodding, Optimus stared earnestly at the now closed door, obscuring that solemn sight from the medic and Prime. Unspoken was the concern not only for Jazz, but for Prowl as well. Ratchet had caught on very early, eons early, to the Polyhexian’s interest in Prime’s Second. As a result, it was no shock when Optimus casually hinted that something may be developing there a few days ago, that Prowl was finally catching on. To be honest, it was exciting, though in retrospect it now worsened the impact of Jazz’s injuries. All of the Command Staff, and others who had also picked up on the clues, were rooting for the two officers, and now they each were hurting for them as well.

They stood without speaking a moment as Ratchet watched the Prime shrewdly, and then the medic ordered, “Now, get back to your berth before I change my mind about welding your irritatingly self-effacing aft to it! The last thing I need is any more officers with a martyr complex stuck in here.”

 _Oh, there'll be no more sorrow, no grief and pain_  
_And I'll be happy, Christmas once again_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Music:**   
>  _Please Come Home for Christmas ~ Eagles_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> The letter from the cancer patient is inspired by a number of experiences and interactions that many members of my family and myself have had. I had an acute illness when I was younger, and I made some very good friends with the other kids who were there for their own treatments, most of whom were cancer/leukemia patients. My older brother was often involved with kids at a local children's hospital, especially the oncology department, throughout college through an amazing opportunity he had; he made many personal relationships with them, and he's lost some of kids too. Additionally, we know a number of families in our community who's children are impacted by various, horrible diseases.  
> The holidays are both a wonderful and difficult time for any family in such circumstances as their traditions, dynamics, lifestyle, and even existence are affected. This was something that I tried to illustrate in this piece. To paraphrase the St. Jude's commercials, always remember to give thanks for the health of your own family, regardless of whether you have a good relationship with them or not, and remember those who are not.


	6. Blue Christmas

**November 30 -- 06:15**

It was the end of November, a week since the Decepticons’ Thanksgiving attack on the Autobots, and life aboard the _Ark_ was almost entirely back to normal. The weekly duty roster was filled without certain mechs scheduled for multiple, consecutive shifts. The shift changes were accompanied by the typically overcrowded and rowdy recreation room, patrols were assigned and circuited, the typical shenanigans were resumed once more, and friends were reunited as all were finally released from the medical bay. All, that is, except for one.

“Here,” Ratchet uttered gruffly as he thrust a large, green-blue cube of medical grade energon into a startled, white servo.

Prowl stared blankly at said cube, motionless before setting the untouched cube precariously on the edge of the occupied medical berth next to him. “I’m not hungry,” he murmured in reply, shifting his focus back to the berth’s occupant and dismissing the medic.

“You’re fuel levels are abysmally low, Prowl,” Ratchet urged, crossing his arms over his chassis with a forceful glare. Prowl replied with an unintelligible, noncommittal utterance that only stoked the notoriously temperamental medic’s ire. “You have to consume something. I’m not letting you run yourself into the ground so long as you persist in staying here. Primus knows you’re already adept at that elsewhere. Either you drink that cube, _all_ of it, by the time I get back, or I’m kicking you out.”

With that, the irritated, concerned mech left the private room and a silent Praxian. Pausing, knowing it was a low blow but convinced it was worthwhile and necessary, Ratchet added over his shoulder, “What would Jazz say if he knew what you were doing to yourself?”

Prowl sighed as he heard the soft hiss of the hydraulics from the closing, automatic door. Reaching out, he resumed a gentle brushing of the comatose mech’s soft features. He knew what Jazz would say, but it was the very fact that Jazz was not awake and well enough to harangue him that was the issue.

A week had passed since that fateful day. A week had passed since he had finally realized and committed to something more existing between him and Jazz. It felt as though centuries had passed rather than a mere seven Earth days, less than an orn by Cybertronian time. They had been separated for stellar-cycles, even vorns, prior to this, yet the experience now was radically different due to the newly realized and cemented personal, emotional investment. In short, the experience was infinitely worse because he truly cared now.

Prowl was aware of his reputation as cold, unfeeling, stoic, strict, and a plethora of increasingly offensive or derogatory descriptors often whispered, or blatantly shouted in some notable circumstances, around and to him. While it was still hurtful at times, he had grown accustomed to the harsh words and irritated or loathing glances. He had even come to rely on that reputation as a sort of shield, using it to distance and subsequently protect himself from the pain and sorrow that accompanied war as a high-ranked officer in tactical. There were only a few who had persevered to break through that shield and weave their way into his life and spark, and one of them was Jazz.

Prowl remembered numerous memories he had that involved Jazz in some way, marveling at the sheer volume of the memorable events in his life that involved the saboteur. Truly, it was near impossible for Prowl to imagine what his life would be like had Jazz never been present, and Prowl had no intention of imagining what his life would be like without Jazz in the future. Thankfully, there was no longer an immediate threat to Jazz’s life from injuries or enemies. He just needed to online.

Gazing longingly into the stubbornly dark, recently replaced visor as he took hold of the nearest black servo, Prowl grasped and sipped from the discarded cube absentmindedly.

 

 _I'll have a blue Christmas without you_  
_I'll be so blue just thinking about you_

 

**19:00**

“So, I said: hey, your village called…they want their idiot back! Then, they all three crashed into the trees because that shriek....”

Slipping inside the busy recreation room during the uproarious laughter, Prowl skirted around the perimeter in the direction of the energon dispenser. Prowl was pleased to note that his entrance had gone unnoticed, especially by Bluestreak who was otherwise enraptured by Sideswipe’s animated recounting, with exceeding amounts of embellishment, of his skirmish with one of the Seeker trines during his patrol earlier to a captivated, entertained, and ribbing audience surrounding the red twin.

A portion of Prowl was pleased to see the relative return to normalcy, but that miniscule portion was far outweighed by the specter of emptiness, despair, worry, and longing resulting from Jazz’s continued and, now, potentially endless absence.

Despite consuming seven-eighths of the energon Ratchet left him that morning, the cranky medic followed through with his threat and had unceremoniously “kicked,” barraged and chased was a better description of that scene, Prowl out of the medbay. Admittedly, that follow through was fueled by the worsening of his patient’s condition. Regardless of the rational, Prowl would not be allowed back in until Ratchet’s scan indicated that Prowl’s fuel levels were up to seventy-five percent as a minimum.

It was irritating.

Looking around the room as he skillfully wove his way through the crowd, Prowl felt similar to how he had on previous occasions since the attack: alienated, displaced, guilt, yearning, and alone. Additionally, the swirl of colorful frames seemed noticeably less vivid, as though a blue-grey veil was placed over only his optics and he was unable to remove it. He did not care to remove it.

He was being pathetic.

Reaching the dispenser, Prowl deftly inputted his code and waited as the panel next to the screen flashed yellow while energon was dispensed. His back was turned to the rest of the room, and his doorwings that were in a perpetual droop, unless he consciously forced them upright, twitched from the stimulus onslaught.

Undoubtedly, he had been noticed by at least someone in the room, but they elected to ignore him, for which he was thankful. He was simply not in the mood to interact with the others, especially as such interaction would focus around how Jazz was doing currently. He was still absorbing the information, and it was an emotionally charged subject for him. Therefore, that was not a conversation he wished to hold. Apparently, his frame language and electromagnetic field were communicating that perfectly.

The panel flashed green, and he quickly snatched the full cube from the dispenser before resuming his evading route back towards the room’s sole exit. Just twelve more steps and he would be free of the potentially prying gazes. Eleven, ten, nine, eight…

He paused, halted by an obstruction he overlooked when he first entered the room. The tree was set up.

Apparently, someone, likely plural, took the initiative and assembled their giant tree sometime over the past few days. Notable, however, was that no ornaments or other decorations were added. Those boxes were shifted from their original position, but they remained otherwise untouched. Glancing around and turning up the sensors in his doorwings, Prowl did not perceive anyone watching his reaction in anticipation. No one gave any indication that they were involved in the sudden appearance of an object of the _Ark_ residents’ favorite traditions.

Prowl stood rooted to the spot, staring at the barren tree. The golden white strands of hundreds of lights glowed, and the fluffy green branches reached out invitingly. It was like a blank canvas, lonely and empty yet inviting and full of hope and potential. For some reason, the unadorned structure seemed like a grotesque sacrilege, and oddly relatable.

Moved by an indefinable urge to fill a void, Prowl diverted to the stacked boxes of decorations beside the tree and opened the top box, searching for a specific item. Carefully, he removed a navy box from the top from which he lifted a delicate, dangling, intricate cluster of tiny Earth flowers, called snow drops, made entirely from a few shards of Praxian crystal that had survived their crash and prolonged stint in stasis.

The crystals were from a miniature garden that Bluestreak had kept following the fall of Praxus, though all three Praxians tended to it, and they were fashioned into the Autobots’ first Christmas ornament through the efforts of Jazz, Sunstreaker, Wheeljack, and Carly. When it was finished, the ornament was presented as a joint gift to all, but especially Bluestreak and Prowl by Sunstreaker and Jazz. According to their searches, the selected flower was considered a symbol of hope in times of darkness, a sentiment fitting and appreciated in their stranded situation as well as the holiday.

Adoration, melancholy, and his own renewing hope swirled among the encompassing grey within him at the memory. A soft, dazzling smile warmed by the golden glow of tree lights, a spectrum of small, spectacular streams refracted from crystal, and a visual reminder of the hope represented by each of their lives whirled in his inner turmoil. Compared to the monotony he had floated in throughout the past week, this was overwhelming.

Feeling dampness around his optics, servo shaking slightly, Prowl gingerly hung and arranged the crystal ornament in a spot about shoulder height, centered in a gap surrounded by lights so that the crystals reflected the light beautifully. After a moment centering himself and appreciating the piece, Prowl turned to escape the room only to freeze, doorwings flaring in shock and optics widened, as every optic was on him. The room was hushed.

Prowl’s expression was more open and broken than many had ever seen, and tiredness from carrying on his daily routine in addition to the added stress of Jazz was evident in his expression, demeanor, and posture. He saw sympathy, sadness, hope, pain, unease, and curiosity in their expressions. No one moved. No one spoke. Only the quiet music played.

At the first shift of frames, Prowl fled.

 

 _Decorations of red on our green Christmas tree_  
_Won't be the same, dear, if you're not here with me_

 

**December 1 -- 09:52**

“…and that’s all for sciences for now. I’ll have that converter modified and up and running the day after tomorrow,” Wheeljack said, concluding the report and update on projects in their science division.

It was almost the end of the weekly scheduled, command staff meeting, he was still banned from entering the medbay, there was no change yet in Jazz, and Prowl did not want to be there. This was the second of these meetings held since Jazz’s injuries and resulting absence, Mirage filling in for Jazz, and Prowl marveled at how easy it was to destroy his motivation and productivity.

He was better than this, and he wanted Jazz back. Those should work concurrently rather than discordantly, as they currently were.

“Thank you, Wheeljack, Perceptor, and Skyfire,” Optimus said congenially. “Hopefully, we will be able to fortify those needed resources sooner rather than later. Please notify Prowl if, or when, it becomes a major issue before we are able to obtain them.”

Optimus glanced at his second when Prowl failed to react for the fifth time throughout the meeting when the formally written report was extended to him. Prowl stirred and jolted back to reality when he felt a pressure on his ped underneath the table, courtesy of Prime. Staring uncomprehendingly, it took a moment for Prowl to realize what was extended to him and that he was expected to accept it. Hastily, Prowl belatedly accepted the datapad, chagrined.

However, as the meeting continued, Prowl found it difficult to focus. He tried, but he eventually gave in and turned on an internal recorder so that he could review anything pressing when he was better able to focus.

As the other department heads gave their reports, and the overall picture of their situation on Earth, in respect to the Decepticons, and interplanetary was discussed, Prowl was aware of the others glancing at him repeatedly. However, with the exception of the feeling that he was letting his Prime down, as well as his own diligence and perfectionistic bent regarding his work, he found it difficult to care. This was exceedingly uncharacteristic for him, disconcerting on numerous levels, and he only hoped that it would be resolved soon.

Not soon enough, Prowl was made aware that the meeting was over by the sudden appearance of a large, blue servo on his shoulder. Glancing around, noting that he and Prime were the only remaining occupants, Prowl slowly lifted his gaze to meet the kind optics and concerned, albeit masked, expression of his leader.

“Prowl,” Optimus began, sitting next to the Praxian. “Are you alright?”

It seemed such a simple question. Was he alright? No. Not at all. However, despite that he and Optimus were longtime friends at this point, he did not want to burden his already overloaded friend with more concerns. He was very aware that Optimus, as well as the other members of his tactical department and senior officers, was completing and alleviating him of many of his duties. In his opinion, it was way more than he deserved.

“I-” He halted, cringing at the shakiness of his voice. Resetting his vocalizer, he tried again, “I-I’ll be okay.” He knew the moment he said it that Prime would not be convinced, and the level look he received confirmed that assumption. Deliberately avoiding Optimus’s gaze, he pulled his EM field, plating, and even his doorwings in tighter, unconsciously trying to make himself smaller. Please let it be, he thought.

However, Optimus would not be Optimus if he let it go. Prime sighed understandingly, gently squeezing Prowl’s shoulder in reassurance and support before releasing it. “I’m concerned about you, old friend. All of us are. I cannot tell you the number of those concerned who have mentioned so.” Contemplatively, he added, “I suppose a better question to ask is, what can we do to help you through this?”

Hesitantly, Prowl glanced up. He saw sincerity, altruism, the genuine desire to help. “Why?” He whispered. Why would anyone, except for perhaps Bluestreak, Jazz, and Ratchet, offer to help him in a capacity beyond duty? Yes, he had devoted much of his life to the Autobots, and as a result he was responsible for the life of every mech and femme ever under his command. However, with that, he had failed extensively at times, and in spectacular and truly awful ways.

Releasing his mask, Optimus smiled at him softly and compassionately. “Why, Prowl, I would think that it is obvious,” He replied. At Prowl’s guardedly distraught expression, his usual façade cracking, he reached out and took both of Prowl’s servos in his own. “We have become a family here, and you are an important part of this family. We take care of each other, always, and especially when one of ours is hurting.”

In the quiet of the empty, soundproofed room, the two senior commanders of the Autobots remained for another hour. Between his inability to do his job consistently and effectively, the new prognosis that Jazz may never awake, and the conflict of emotions with logic and his inherent sense of duty and responsibility, Prowl had reached his limit.

 

 _And when those blue snowflakes start fallin'_  
_That's when those blue memories start callin'_

 

**December 2 -- 18:00**

Prowl stood outside on a ledge above the crashed Vanguard-class interstellar craft, helm tilted up toward the grey sky above and ice blue optics shuttered. He stood contemplating, feeling.

The turmoil inside him was so much that everything blended together into numbness. It was like the snowflakes fluttering down from the sky, swirling in the breeze before coalescing in a sheet of white covering every flat surface in sight. His emotions swirled together until they were a numbing blanket that left him feeling hollow and cold.

It was the first snow of the year, a phenomenon not too frequent given their location.

He smiled faintly as he remembered Jazz’s love of the first snow, a love equal to that of his love for the holiday season. He could picture the slightly smaller, black and white mech smiling broadly and twirling with outstretched arms in the falling, frozen crystals. He could visualize that glowing azure visor facing him and the beautiful optics hidden beneath brimming with joy, pleasure, affection, and perhaps even love someday.

At that thought, the faint quirk of his lips dissipated. Jazz still did not know of Prowl’s returned affection. Granted, there was a battle, and since then the saboteur had been unconscious. However, it seemed wrong to Prowl, and only now did he feel uncertainty.

Here he was, falling apart as Jazz laid unaware in the medbay, and he could very well have misread and turned something friendly and innocent into something one-sided and damaging.

Closing his optics once more, he took a deep vent of the chilled, crisp air before raising his doorwings and stepping over to the crude path that lead back to the entrance of the _Ark_.

He knew what he needed to do.

 

 _You'll be doin' all right, with your Christmas of white_  
_But I'll have a blue, blue, blue, blue Christmas_

 

Entering the medbay, Prowl saw First Aid cleaning tools and equipment in the back corner of the main ward while Ratchet adjusted his previous repair to Huffer’s shoulder joint. He met Ratchet’s pointed look with his own resolved, unflinching gaze before slowly continuing towards Jazz’s room in the ICU. Assured that he was not going to be halted by a furious medic, Prowl quickened his determined pace. Pausing, staring at the closed door a moment, Prowl took a steadying vent and then entered.

Jazz lay supine and comatose as he had for over a week. The evidence of extensive repairs was obvious by the unpainted, grey patches of metal plating and the numerous weld marks crisscrossing across the lithe frame. His visored faceplates were smooth and expressionless, relieving given the last expression that contorted those familiar, endearing features yet disconcerting. Surrounded by flashing and pulsing screens and monitors, connected by various linkages, Jazz looked so weak and vulnerable. Prowl had the overwhelming urge to run to the healing mech, scoop him into his arms, and never let go.

Approaching the berth, glancing at the indiscernible monitors, Prowl intertwined his white servo with one of Jazz’s black servos, cool and limp. Prowl stared at the still mech, this wonderful beacon of life and light who had captivated his spark.

He glanced once more at the monitors, willing them to show some positive change. “Please, Jazz,” he whispered brokenly and pleadingly in the silence. Lifting the servo he held, he gently pressed his lips to the back of that servo. “I can’t do this without you. I have always needed you, but I never noticed or appreciated just how much I need you, want you, here. Of course, it required a push for me to grasp it,” he half-heartedly huffed a depreciating laugh at that. “No surprise there. But, I understand now. The gestures, being there, the music, the memories, the proximity. It was you trying to show me.”

He paused, chocking on his words as fluid filled his optics.

“I realize it now, and I was going to tell you that day…that day _they_ did this to you.” He brushed a servo along the side of a still cheek, along a marred jawline, and across heavily repaired chestplates. He distinctly recalled the extensive damage.

“I wanted to tell you then, have wanted to tell you since, and want to tell you now.” He paused. “It’s cowardly, telling you like this. But I must, Jazz. I _must_.” He heard and haltingly sang with the soft music playing as the quiet beep of one of the monitors matched the music’s rhythm.

 

 _You'll be doin' all right, with your Christmas of white_  
_But I'll have a blue, blue, blue, blue Christmas_

 

“Primus, Jazz,” He whispered, leaning weakly against the berth and desperately yet carefully clinging to Jazz. All words seemed to flee him, every carefully crafted sentence he had constructed and every thoughtful memory he detailed to share. He rested his helm against the heavily repaired chassis above the saboteur’s spark, shuttering his optics as fluid streamed down his own faceplates.

“I love you.” His voice seemed to ring in the quiet room, like the fading, final note of a vocal solo sung in candlelight.

Silence. Silence and tears.

He heard a faint, whirling shift of systems. Was that…?

He felt a shift followed by a soft, warming servo come to rest on the back of his helm. He trembled, hopeful but unconvinced he was not imagining this. Could it really be…?

“That’s my line, Prowler,” a static-laced but distinctly familiar and adored voice whispered.

“Jazz?” Prowl gasped, jolting upward and clinging to the servo he held. Overflowing hope, anxiety, joy, shock, and anticipation blossomed in him. He gazed in tense hope at the rapidly brightening visor and the steadily growing, loving smile he received. Shakily and hesitantly, he tenderly caressed Jazz’s face as though he were handling paper-thin porcelain.

Weakly, Jazz raised his free servo to cup Prowl’s cheek, thumb brushing defined jaw. “Right here, love.”

“Jazz!”

Surging forward in elation and pure relief, Prowl met Jazz’s willing, soft lips in a relieved, loving, gentle kiss. Their lips molded together perfectly, soft, warm, and tender. It was pure joy, like every happy memory wound into one glorious, shared, physical moment. It communicated every feeling Prowl had felt and endured: worry, longing, fear, care, despair, adoration, joy, and, above all else, love.

It was safe, warm, and love.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless and with a soft moan, they gazed happily into each other’s optics. They held each other closely, the slight discomfort unnoticed by either. Sending a quick ping to Ratchet to let the medic know that Jazz was finally awake, pressing another sweet kiss to Jazz’s lips, Prowl smiled adoringly at the beautiful, tired Polyhexian.

No words were needed.

“Stay with me?” Jazz asked nevertheless, fingertips bushing adoringly down Prowl’s cheek.

“Always,” Prowl promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Music**   
>  _Blue Christmas ~ Elvis Presley_
> 
>  
> 
> Once again, thank you for reading, kudos, and comments so far!


	7. I'll Be Home for Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading, commenting, and kudos! 
> 
> Please excuse any glaring errors. I intended to have this piece up between Christmas and New Year's, but I went through a rough spell emotionally about some things coming up fast in RL. Yay, emotion-induced lack of motivation. Anyways, I wanted to have this posted for you all before school starts back for me.

**December 3**

“Did you hear?”

“Which? C’mon, mech, you got to be specific around here.”

“Jazz is awake!”

“Finally!”

Pause as work was accomplished for a quarter of a breem, if that.

“Wait, how did you find out? You’ve been stuck on monitor duty, and I was just there yesterday morning for Aid to do another adjustment. It sounded like things were getting worse, not better.”

“Well, I ran into Sideswipe on the way-”

“Oh, come on. You seriously can’t be that gullible.”

“Of course not! But, he was passing by when he heard the commotion in medbay, and Huffer came out about the same time. He told him that there was something going on with Jazz, and you can’t deny that Ratchet’s mood has been, well, his brand of normal. Put it together, and it must mean Jazz is awake!”

“You know what that means, don’t you? If it’s true?”

“Yep. Been looking forward to it. I think I heard the beginnings of a plan in the commissary before I got here.”

Later that morning, Ratchet was seen entering the Prime’s office looking tired yet pleased, the latter a shocking yet promising image to those on duty. Half of a breem later, the Prime, closely followed by the Chief Medical Officer, exited briskly yet lightly. He appeared as though the weight of the universe was removed from his broad shoulders. The two travelled to the medical bay, a journey that was closely followed using the available, small security monitors and the copious amount of security cameras throughout the _Ark_.

Word travelled fast. They had a lot to prepare.

 

* * *

  

**December 5 -- 14:38**

“Thanks, my mech,” Jazz said with a tired smile, carefully clutching the gifted items. “These’ll be great.”

“No problem! Figured you’d be needing something while you’re stuck here two astrokliks after rejoining us this side of the Matrix.” Jazz’s red and gold visitor was perched comfortably against the side of the medical berth, visibly pleased and excited to be reunited with him, which was no surprise. “Let me know when you get through those. I’ll find you some more if the Hatchet still has you stuck in here.”

Jazz smiled appreciatively and nodded. “Thanks. I so owe you.”

Blaster just laughed before suddenly straightening from his perch with a stretch, field flickering apologetically. “Well, I got to go. Duty calls,” he said in a mockingly heroic tone, to which Jazz snorted.

“What do you got today?” Jazz inquired. He could always look it up himself, but he was game for any excuse to prolong his interaction with his crewmates and friends during his visiting hours.

“Double of comm.s followed by monitor.” The grimace, physical and verbal, accompanying that statement was tangible. The saboteur trilled in sympathy, his own feeble field suffused with equal sentiment. “Yeah, my processor is already dead with boredom just thinking about that second one.” The host cheekily grinned at Jazz. “Hey, you have sway with the taskmaster now. You sure you can’t use that influence of yours to persuade our illustrious SIC to make one of his oh-so-rare, last minute changes?”

Jazz laughed before looking at Blaster’s over-exaggerated forlornness unapologetically. “Sorry, mech. I have to save that winsome charm and sway. No offense, but it’s every mech for himself when it comes to monitor duty.”

“Slagger. You owe me.”

“Not that much!” Jazz laughed. He waved his servo mock-imperiously and dismissively. “Now shoo. You don’t want to be late, that’ll just make things worse.”

Flicking a black, uninjured sensor horn, Blaster shook his helm before trudging away with exorbitant amounts of faux-despair. “Yeah, yeah, I’m going.”

“Thanks!”

“Glitch,” the host murmured, the abysmally smothered grin belying his affronted act. With a fond look and final wave, Blaster disappeared.

Jazz sighed from his reclined position at the now empty room, filled only with the soft hum of medical equipment and quietly playing music. To his right, a side table and the space on the floor surrounding it were flooded with a variety of “get well soon” gifts and boredom distractors, courtesy of everyone on the _Ark_.

Ratchet was restricting the number of visitors he could have in a day as well as who could visit, namely members of the command staff, medical personnel, his Special Ops subordinates, and explicitly Prowl. However, word of his consciousness and recovery spread quickly, and those who were permitted to visit were bombarded with questions, requests to pass along messages, and these items. He smiled fondly at them, these amicable expressions of friendship, thought, and care.

However, his warm feelings diminished somewhat at the empty chair next to the table to his right. Although he promised he would only be gone for a shift duration, and although he had not broken that promise yet, Jazz missed the, until now, perpetually present doorwinger. Prowl. The mech had a ton of responsibilities to tend to now that Jazz was awake with a fantastic prognosis, increased by Jazz’s continued inability to even sit up without assistance as he recovered. Jazz knew and appreciated this. Nevertheless, he wanted nothing more than for the gorgeous, diligent Praxian to stay by his side throughout his entire recovery, and beyond. It was selfish, but he wanted that uniquely quiet and focused care and affection.

Primus, not even a breem and he was lonely and feeling the first inkling of stir craziness.

Focusing on the objects, a few slim, black cases filled with organized data wafers, Jazz sifted through the miniature collection and began ordering them for when Prowl was back. Movies. Blaster had brought him an array of Christmas movies from the classics to more recent television movies.

This was going to be fun.

 

**16:15**

Prowl smiled softly in an unguarded moment at the dozing Polyhexian as he entered the room with the muted hiss and _woosh_ of the sliding door. Jazz apparently fell into recharge while perusing something within the black, book-like case resting on his lap, something new that had arrived since he left for first shift earlier that morning. As quietly as was possible, Prowl maneuvered around the remaining medical monitors and equipment to the other side of the berth, sitting in the lone chair and resuming his vigil.

Subspacing the simple yet elegant, small container he brought with him, Prowl threaded his servo into the nearest black one, absently rubbing his thumb along in a soothing motion as he cast his gaze along the still healing frame. As repairs integrated, Jazz appeared increasingly healthy and whole, and he regained some of his strength and confidence each day. Each day, Jazz returned more to the mech with whom Prowl fell in love.

While he was focused on capturing every detail of each healing weld or integrating replacement part, Prowl missed the slow brightening of an azure visor until he felt a gentle squeeze on his entangled servo. Jerked from his trance-like observation, Prowl slowly gave the dopily smiling saboteur a tiny smile in return. “Hi,” he whispered. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“Hey, yourself,” Jazz replied. Pressing his free servo onto the berth beside his hip, Jazz hissed as the slight movement aggravated his extensive repairs, stretching the surface welds and causing an ache from shifting internal parts. Prowl immediately moved to help him resettle.

“How was shift?” Jazz gasped as he stilled completely, allowing the pain to take its course and ebb away.

“It was fine. Typical.” Prowl opened his field in offered support, melding with and soothing what he could of the pain from Jazz’s. Clear in the Polyhexian’s field was his gratitude and love for the support and the mech offering it.

“I would have been back sooner, but Red Alert caught me just as I was exiting my office,” Prowl apologized. “I also required an additional stop on my way,” he added once he sensed the saboteur was settled once more. Removing the small container from his subspace, he presented it to the curious, not at all miffed saboteur.

Taking the metallic box from Prowl, marveling at the elegant, silver and copper designs, Jazz opened it and smiled with awe and glee.

“Are these what I think they are?” Jazz questioned excitedly, receiving a nod from Prowl. Inside was an assortment of Cybertronian delicacies, a rarity these days, molded and decorated in a seasonally inspired, artistically tasteful manner. They looked professional and mouthwateringly good. “They’re beautiful. But, I thought Ratchet banned this brand of fun.”

“I am of the opinion that his threat is exclusively for Thanksgiving, as well as you and Wheeljack,” Prowl deadpanned, betrayed by the mischievous glimmer in his light blue optics. Never get on the wrong side of a determined, master tactician. “Besides, it is amusing to watch him flounder as he attempts to tell Bluestreak ‘no.’”

Jazz snickered at the image that conjured. A pleading, pouting Bluestreak with all the stops pulled out -  pathetically drooping doorwings, puppy dog optics, hopeful smile, and perhaps even a hint of oncoming waterworks – standing in front of a Ratchet with servos on hips, trying but failing to dissuade the young gunner in a non-spark-crushing manner. Never did Jazz, or Prowl, ever imagine how deadly persuasive that combination was when Jazz inspired it while sparkling sitting Bluestreak eons ago. To date, Jazz’s excuse was that he was looking for some new entertainment. The ultimate product worked practically every time.

And, of course, neither officer was above recruiting the younger Praxian’s preternatural ability for their own agendas.

“You, my love, are incredibly devious,” Jazz teased with a smirk. Delicately lifting one of the Christmas themed, homemade treats from the container, Jazz held it up and marveled. “And, you come bearing delicious treats. Count me impressed.” Holding it out to Prowl, Jazz asked, “Share them with me?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Prowl replied. He delicately kissed the servo before taking the treat. The two settled in, one on the berth and the other in the chair flush to the side of said berth.

As they reveled in the contentment of each other’s presence, consuming the sweet morsels in an equally sweet and playful way, Prowl gestured to the discarded cases. “What are these?”

Jazz quickly finished swallowing his treat, decorated like an angel. “Seasonal entertainment!” Grabbing and opening the uppermost case, Jazz pointed to the numerous wafers in the sleeves. “We’ve got the classics here: Miracle on 34th Street, It’s a Wonderful Life, Holiday Inn, White Christmas. We’ve got some animated classics, think Rudolph, the Grinch, and variations on Santa. And, we’ve got some modern favorites: Elf, Christmas with the Kranks, A Christmas Story...the works!”

Prowl hummed contemplatively. “I assume you’ve organized a marathon by now.” Jazz nodded enthusiastically, causing Prowl’s lips to quirk into a grin. “Shall we get started then?”

“Yes, please!”

 

**Later...**

“I cannot make sense of it...”

Jazz tilted his helm to peer up at Prowl, who had migrated to joining the saboteur on the berth about halfway through the earlier, first movie at Jazz’s insistence. “Make sense o’ what?”

Prowl stared intently at the brief, rolling credits. “A number of facets of the film, but specifically, why is the doll considered a misfit?”

It just did not make sense to the Praxian. Apparently, it was also extensively debated by other viewers over the years based on a quick Internet search. Rightfully so, Prowl thought to himself.

“Huh,” Jazz contemplated. “Perhaps that she’s sad or has self-esteem issues? That seems like the most popular theory.”

“Perhaps,” Prowl echoed. “However, it is inconsistent with the identifiers that classify the other toys as ‘misfits.’ Setting aside the fact that the arc was expanded after the film’s initial release, consider this. There is a train with square wheels, a boat that cannot stay afloat, an airplane that cannot fly, a bird that swims, a water pistol that shoots jelly of all things, a spotted elephant, a wind-up mouse in a set of nesting dolls, and a cowboy that rides an ostrich.” He paused, letting Jazz draw the same conclusion himself.

“It’s all physical, defects, ironies,” Jazz stated, shifting to a more comfortable angle to watch Prowl process.

Prowl nodded. “Exactly,” he agreed. “Yet, despite that she is disheartened and despairing over her circumstance, which is entirely understandable, the doll appears completely normal and even appealing as a toy for a child. Sadness hardly seems sufficient for keeping her on the island as, eventually, it would be difficult, almost impossible, to distinguish between an ingrained predisposition or a response to circumstance...”

At this point, Jazz was vibrating with suppressed laughter at the conversation, projecting as composed and engaged as he could muster. This was why he thoroughly enjoyed watching movies with Prowl. The mech inevitably fixated on the flaws of everything and made rationalizing them such a serious, important affair. It was hilarious. Sometimes it was annoying, but mostly it was hilarious.

“...Nevertheless, the characterization is inconsistent,” Prowl continued to elaborate, unaware that the saboteur unfocusedly gazing up at him had not been paying attention to his verbal analysis for the past half-breem. “In short, while there is an ‘explanation’ from the producers, the motive remains insufficient, inconsistent, and unsatisfying. It makes no sense.”

“You know,” Jazz interjected with a teasing grin, wriggling a digit into the Praxian’s side, causing Prowl to squirm at the sensation. “It _is_ just an animated film. A cartoon.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Prowl replied petulantly. “It’s the principle.”

Prowl reached for the remote and cued up the scene selection menu, determined to identify the explanation. Jazz laughed before gingerly leaning up and pressing a kiss to Prowl’s cheek.

“Never change, Prowler.”

Jazz relaxed against the slightly taller mech’s chestplates again, content to let his love with his fixated processors and battle computer work through mystery of the doll on the Island of Misfit Toys. It would take a while before Prowl would admit defeat. Excuse him, defer to a later time so that he could accumulate more ‘data’ and ‘evidence.’ After all, the tactician had a reputation to uphold with respect to quality.

All Jazz knew was that he could not resist adding, “Oh yeah, don’t forget. Once you figure out the doll, you got to find an explanation for the scooter next!”

Both would remain unsolved this year, much to Prowl’s frustration and Jazz’s gleeful entertainment.

 

* * *

**December 6 -- 05:00**

It started out quiet, the sound of gently rolling waves accompanying simple notes. Then, it started to grow.

 

_Let's get away from sleigh bells_  
Let's get away from snow  
Let's make a break some Christmas, dear  
I know the place to go

 

A visor and a pair of optics dimly glowed in the early morning darkness. Groggily, Jazz muttered incoherently in confusion. Once he registered that it was the music, he listened closer as he did not initially recognize the song. Prowl shifted as he tried to return to the realm of recharge.

Suddenly, the music burst forth in volume and annoyingness.

 

_How'd ya like to spend Christmas on Christmas Island?_  
_How'd ya like to spend the holiday away across the sea?_  
_How'd ya like to spend Christmas on Christmas Island?_  
_How'd ya like to hang a stocking on a great big coconut tree?_

 

“Noo,” Jazz moaned, achingly rolling so he could ineffectively cover both his audials. Not this one. This was cruel and unusual punishment. You know, something one kept around when they needed the pièce de résistance for purely revenge purposes.

“Prowl,” he whined, enduring the twinges of pain he received as he repeatedly nudged Prowl with his ped. He received a recharge-laced, grumpy groan at the disturbance. “Make it stop!”

 

_How'd ya like to stay up late like the islanders do?_  
_Wait for Santa to sail in with your presents in a canoe_

 

“Prrooowwwwlllllll...”

Nudge. Nudge. Kick.

“Jazz, I swear to Primus,” Prowl grumbled. Jazz whimpered pathetically in response.

Huffing, Prowl slid off the berth and unsteadily crossed the room to the small, portable speaker set assembled there. Picking up the master datapad controlling the entire _Ark_ ’s sound system – which he was yet to discern how it was done – he forcefully stabbed at the screen.

 

_If you ever spend Christmas on Christmas Island_  
_You will never stray for everyday your Christmas dreams come true_

 

It stopped.

Both black and whites sighed in relief to their audials as something vocal-less came on, a jazz trio coincidentally enough.

Step. Step. Stumble. Step.

Prowl laid back down, wrapping the saboteur in his arms. “Better?”

“Yeah,” Jazz replied with a yawn. “I’m gonna kill Blaster.”

An awkward, tense silence settled between them, at least for Prowl. He never figured it out, Prowl realized. Jazz was already settling back in to try for more rest, heedless of what he had just conveyed. Albeit, the Polyhexian had only been awake for a few days now, and most of that time had been spent resting, recuperating, and beginning to define the relationship between them.

“Why?”

Jazz hummed questioningly. “What?”

“Why Blaster?” Prowl clarified. He wanted to do this carefully so that it would hopefully not blow up in his face.

“He’s obviously the one who’s been keepin’ the music playing. The choices aren’t quite his usual taste, but I guess he’s been trying to be discreet for some reason.” Jazz chuckled to himself. “Maybe he’s tryin’ to accomplish something with it.”

Prowl absently nodded. Maybe he should just keep it to himself. After all, gestures such as these were not his forte.

“You don’t seem satisfied with that answer.” Jazz shifted so that he could pin Prowl with a pointed look. “You know something about this?”

Now or never. “Actually, I do.” Idly tracing weld marks, wishing his touch could make them disappear, Prowl avoided Jazz’s gaze. Clamping down on the reawakened upheaval of his emotions at the recollection of the not-so distant past, he haltingly continued. “I...while it was still uncertain about whether you would make it, it was an especially difficult time. For many.” Why was this so hard to convey? He had already revealed his affections for Jazz. “I needed something stabilizing, something normal. Something to make everything all seem worthwhile. Something reflective...”

“Reflective?” Jazz interjected. Before his confused expression could settle, it morphed into realization tinged with a mix of guilt, apology, and surprise. “Oh.”

Prowl still avoided the saboteur’s gaze. “I thought I would utilize a figurative page from your book, at least what I perceived as something indicative of-”

“It was. I’d hoped you might catch on” Jazz interrupted again, this time with a growing, genuine smile. “That is single-servoedly the most downright romantic thing I have ever witnessed from you, by the way.” He waved a servo to stave off the oncoming retort. “Yeah, this is new, but still. It explains why I’ve had some songs stuck in my processor that I don’t remember playing before this whole mess.”

“I’m just glad to have you back,” Prowl replied, pulling Jazz closer for comfort.

“Can’t say I’m not, myself.” Jazz snuggled into the strong, warm arms holding him. “Besides, I wanted to reply,” he said, remotely switching on a lyric-less version of a specific song, before beginning his own serenade for one.

 

_I'm dreaming tonight of a place I love_  
_Even more than I usually do_  
_And although I know_  
_It's a long road back, I promise you_

_I'll be home for Christmas_  
_You can count on me_  
_Please have snow and mistletoe_  
_And presents under the tree_

_Christmas eve will find me_  
_Where the love light beams_  
_I'll be home for Christmas_  
_If only in my dreams_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Music:**   
>  _Christmas Island ~ Kristen Chenoweth_   
>  _I'll Be Home for Christmas ~ Darius Rucker_
> 
>  
> 
> Yes, that little discussion is about the "Dolly for Sue" from the Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer animated movie. I cannot count the number of times I have that discussion each year, and it still bugs me. 
> 
> I still have some more to go, though it may be a little later until I have them finished and posted. Just think of it as extending the spirit of the holiday as we all return to everyday routines again.


End file.
